Entropy
by JackSlack
Summary: After the events of season one, Jack Bauer and the team of CTU begin an investigation of an attack on LA. This story honors the continuity of season one, but ignores the events of seasons 2 and onward.


This story occurs six months after the events of season one. No effort has been made to keep continuity with any of the events of season two or thereafter.

The following events take place between 12pm and 1pm. Events occur in sequential chronological order.

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**Paris, France  
Local Time: 21:01:03**

"Il est fait," The big man in the blue Hawaiian shirt whispered, looking at the dull fluorescence of a computer monitor, his voice coming out in disbelieving gasps. "Il est fait."

Away from this scene a second man, tall but skinny with dusky skin, nervously watched a display monitor. Monochrome blue and grey showed video of five men armed with assault rifles run at a large truck. These assailants obviously shouted loudly as they dragged the driver from his seat and threw him to the ground, though the video had no sound. A burst of light from one of the rifles and the splatter left in place of the driver's head indicated that shots were fired. Satisfied, the tall man turned to the programmer and asked, in an exotic, implacable voice, "Cela fonctionne?"

"Oui, oui. Je vérifie des simulations maintenant, mais cela fonctionnera. Ceci détruira n'importe quoi qu'il peut fuir dans. Chaos en paquets minuscules," The big man raised his arm to wipe away the sweat from his brow, and smiled broadly, "Et là vous êtes. Accomplissez les simulations. Quelque chose que ceci entre en contact avec est arrêté. Presque impossible pour supprimer. Et il sread exponentiellement toutes les dix minutes."

"Henri?" That exotic voice sought confirmation, and it came from a small, reedy man seated at a second computer.

"Oui mes simulations confirment le sien. Nous sommes prêts." His accent, distinctly French, contrasted with the American accented French spoken by the larger man.

That brought a smile to the exotic man's face, and he stated, "Michael, vous serez bien récompensés de ceci."

Michael's face shrunk at that. Almost imperceptibly, his hand lowered to beneath his desk, where a .44 pistol had been taped. "Vous voulez dire cela, droit? J'obtiens un vol à la maison, maintenant, et dix mille?"

"Qui nous pensez-vous êtes-vous?" The exotic voice snapped. "Je vous ai fait une promesse, et vous obtiendrez vos dix mille." He threw a small satchel at Michael. "Il est tout dedans là. Les billets, aussi."

Michael looked inside, and breathed a sigh of relief. Then he pulled a CD from the computer, placed it inside clear plastic case, and handed it over to the exotically voiced man. "Ceci peut être transféré à tous les médias que vous voulez."

"Merveilleux. Vous pouvez aller," As Michael left, the man with the exotic voice picked up a phone and asked, "Is the router set? Good. I'm making the call."

**Los Angeles, California  
Local Time: 12:11:21  
CTU Public Offices**

The phone rang, and Stacy picked it up with her usual brisk operator manner, barely stopping for breath, "Counter Terrorist Unit Los Angeles, how may I direct your call?"

"Hello, I'm afraid I'm not entirely certain. My name is Mr. Davidson, I'm a teacher at Inglewood Public School and we're doing a project on government. One of my studen —"

Stacy cut him off, having gained exactly as much information as she needed, "I'll put you through to public relations, they'll be able to send you out an information pack."

"Thank you," the man managed to get out before a click, followed by an impatient dial tone.

Erica, a perky young blonde, picked up the phone and answered, with as much energy and professionalism as she could muster, "Good afternoon, Mr… Davidson, was it? Thank you for your —"

"My name isn't Davidson, and I suggest firmly now that you stop talking and listen to me," The chill tone of that exotic voice brooked no argument, and Erica's friendly phone banter sunk into frightened silence. "If you have any regard for your own personal safety, or your country, then you will not attempt to transfer me, nor trace this call. You will write down this message word for word, and then take it personally to the CTU director. Do you know who that is? You may speak, now."

"George Mason," Erica whimpered.

"Very good. Now take a pen, and begin writing."

**12:17:39**

"You don't like being here."

It wasn't a question. The psychiatrist, a pudgy man with a finely trimmed blonde beard, made quiet notes as he talked. Jack squirmed under the accusation, but managed a soft calm in his voice as he snapped, "I came here, didn't I? Do your job and let me do mine."

Another note quickly found its way onto his notepad, and the doctor observed"You were forced here, Jack. How many months did you take off after your wife was killed?"

"That's in your file," Jack growled, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

"Five months, yes. Why wouldn't you just answer the question?" His gaze met Jack's eyes, which returned the scrutiny with flinty intensity.

"I don't like being asked questions when we all know the answers."

"Like, say, the house special sub-committee hearings?"

Jack's lips tightened, and he nearly hissed his next sentence, "That day was the worst day of my life. It began with my daughter being kidnapped. I was told to kill one of my closest friends, who turned out to be actually working against me the entire time. And it ended with my wife dead in my arms." Jack looked at the floor, angrily breathing out his words, "And just when I thought it was all over, I spent the next two months living it over and over again, in as much detail as I can give, so that Washington can give us the OK to keep going on doing our jobs. Did you know they didn't hand down one indictment from all of that? Not one."

The psychiatrist shrugged. "Due process surely has to be followed. A day like that… Why not spend the time with Kimberly? I'm sure she's as devastated by Teri's death as you are."

Jack looked to the floor, and sighed, "She won't speak to me."

"Why not, do you think?" The doctor asked, and Jack hesitated, unwilling to answer. But the doctor refused to speak again, to let Jack off the hook. It took the phone ringing to do that. The doctor snapped it up from the hook and spat words down the line, irritated. Jack breathed out relief.

"Listen, I'm not willing to release him for work just yet… get the new girl to do it! Fine. Fine, Tony." The doctor's face set itself in a mask of annoyance as he informed Jack, "You've been asked to the conference room. Director Mason has called all agents in."

Jack stood up immediately, breathed out a hurried thank you, and left.

**12:28:15**

"Well, get him on the phone!" George Mason snarled, "I need confirmation on the truck. Get it for me! Jesus." The current CTU director took a moment to breathe, leaned against one of the glass dividers of the offices, and then spot a fragile, distraught blonde woman standing by one of the doorways, "Erica, get out of here. You brought the message, done your job. You're dismissed. Get to the phones. Tony!"

"What?" Tony Almeida stepped onto the floor, quickly pocketing his cell phone as his boss snapped at him.

"Where's Jack?" Mason fired back, "I asked you to get him five minutes ago."

"I'm right here, George." Both Mason and Almeida glanced over their shoulders as Special Agent Jack Bauer stepped past the glass divider and into the main offices of CTU. The clatter of keyboards surrounded the three. "Thanks for pulling me out of there."

Mason shook his head, his face locked in a foul grimace, and returned, "Don't thank me, Jack." The three began walking immediately, their quick footsteps being drowned out by the clatter of keyboards and the constant beeps of incoming phone calls. Tony grabbed a red binder on his way past his desk and handed it to Jack. As he began flipping through the thin document, Mason continued, "Grab a jacket and a gun from your office and get to the roof, Tracy's waiting for you. We'll brief you on the way."

"Got it, George." Jack nodded, and then began swiftly pacing toward his office. Tony Almeida opened the door to the conference room. As soon as they entered, a young man, dressed casually and with spiky hair, leapt to his feat and handed over a sheet of printed paper. George accepted the paper and began looking it over, grunting unhappily at the vague information it contacted, "Worse than nothing, Milo."

"We just don't know where to begin looking, George. There's at least eight companies who run tankers in California alone, and then —"

"Milo," George looked up, irritated, "Not now. Jack, can you hear me"

Jack reached the roof just as he fixed his earpiece and replied, "Loud and clear, George." As he stepped toward the helicopter, a woman in her mid-twenties yelled a greeting over the roar of the blades, and Jack returned the favor, "Hey, Tracy. Where are we headed?"

"Wilshire Boulevard!" She called back, and clambered into the helicopter behind him. The helicopter shifted uneasily, lurched to one side, and lifted into the air, banking immediately.

As they began moving, George Mason spoke to both of them through their earpieces, "I'm going to play a recording we made twenty minutes ago. Listen carefully."

As both of the agents in the helicopter cupped their hand around their earpiece to listen more closely, the recording began in a clipped, implacable accent, "Very good. Now take a pen, and begin writing. George Mason. We have secured a fuel oil truck filled completely with high octane gasoline. Before one o'clock this afternoon, it will be driven to the corner of Wilshire Boulevard and 6th street, and detonated. The casualties will be horrific unless you evacuate the area. Do so. You have half an hour."

As the recording finished, Mason noted, "He also told us not to record that, but well, we record everything."

"Have we confirmation on the truck?" Jack asked, his voice raised over the noise around him.

"No, Jack. We've been looking for report with the police, but it's not there, and we haven't been able to contact all the companies yet," Tony shook his head, "Tracy, you're former FBI. What profile can you give this guy?"

Tracy ran both hands through her finely cropped black hair, and answered, "Not a whole lot to go on here. But... first of all, he's being clever about it, trying to avoid a trace by calling under false pretences. But then there's his accent. It's flat, impossible to place. He probably spent months, maybe even years, perfecting it. But if that's the case, then why tell Erica not to record it?"

"Paranoid, maybe?" Mason suggested.

"Maybe. But I don't think so. I think he's playing a game with us," Tracy called, "America doesn't have a history of call-ins for terrorist acts. It's unusual in all ways. I think he's playing us, trying to wrong-foot us."

At that, the helicopter began descending, and Jack informed Mason, "We're here, George. I'll keep you posted. Try to get me a description on that truck." As the helicopter touched down, the two agents jumped from the cabin and ran across to a police lieutenant a few yards away. Jack yelled out introductions, "Special Agent Jack Bauer, Special Agent Tracy Fletcher. What's our status?"

"We've got roadblocks set up on every road for two blocks around here," The lieutenant began, "And your helicopter is going to start doing sweeps of the area, looking for the truck."

Jack paused for a minute, "You mean you haven't seen it yet?"

"That's impossible," Fletcher puzzled, "He's only got ten minutes left, he should be within 5 miles of here."

There was an uncomfortable pause as everyone pondered that, and then Jack suddenly asked, "Tracy, could you destroy a building by ramming an oil truck into it?"

"It would depend on the building."

"What about that one?" Jack pointed behind them all, to the looming, 75 story Library Tower.

Tracy's face drained of color. "Not on its own. But if you lined it with dynamite, and drove it right into the middle… the truck would vaporise the core of the building, and the explosives would be fired outward, taking out the support pillars. The building would topple."

"And it's three blocks away from us."

"Right outside the road blocks," Tracy confirmed.

"Lieutenant!" Jack barked, his body jolting into action. "Get your men surrounding the Library Tower, now! You have ten minutes at the most!"

As Jack commanded the troops they had, Tracy frantically yelled back to Mason, "He's played us, Mason! We're 99 certain that his goal is the First Interstate World Center. Do anything they can to stop that truck… dive bomb the thing if you have to"

"Let's go! Let's go!" Jack, Fletcher and dozen of policemen broke into a run as they tried to get to the Library Tower in time. Jack checked his watch. 12:54:36 Fletcher ran through the doors and yelled for the manager to close and lock all doors as securely as they could. As the Tower staff struggled to pile up furniture in front of the doors, Jack crouched along the main road, and wiped sweat off his brow as he waited. 12:55:53. Policemen took positions at the side of each road, while others evacuated passers by, moving them to safer positions. Guns everywhere aimed down the road, waiting to shred the tires of anything moving past the roadblock.

Hot midday sunlight beat down on them as they waited. Tracy ran next to Jack, and drew her own sidearm. She checked her own watch. 12:57:26

Finally, a voice came over the crackle of the radio. "Jack, he's not here. Trust me, from up here in the chopper I can't see any oil truck for miles. None could get here in an hour. Nothing's going to happen."

Jack holstered his gun, his sigh echoing annoyance and relief, all at once. And then the radio crackled into life again. "Jack, there's a man here with one of our officers."

"So? What's the situation?" Jack queried.

The lieutenant turned. Standing behind him was a small, dark haired man with the words 'Jack Bauer' written in bright red marker across his white t-shirt. Pressing the button on his radio once more, the lieutenant remarked, "It's got your name all over it."

**13:00:00**


End file.
